


when the room fills with smoke

by nilchance



Series: lest ye be judged [5]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Post-Undertale Neutral Route - Neutral Pacifist Ending, Undertale Genocide Route, Undertale Saves and Resets, sans briefly commits an honesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: three scenes from the resets.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s late enough that Papyrus is about to check Grillby's when Sans finally gets home. Papyrus is immediately up and off the couch where he was worrying himself sick and scolds, "You missed dinner."

"Lost track of time." Sans closes the front door and stops to scratch the top of the Annoying Dog's head. He moves haltingly, like it hurts. "Drunk Bunny needed somebody to walk her home."

Papyrus puts his hands on his hips. "You could've called."

From one of his pockets, Sans produces the sad remains of his cell phone. The screen is cracked. "Sorry. Hey, you need a paperweight or something?"

Sans is all sweaty and grimy. There are rips in the front of his hoodie, showing his science nerd T-shirt underneath, and sticky globs of some mystery substance splattered up his sleeves. Papyrus frowns at him. "You should be more careful. What did you get on you? Is that grease?"

"Huh?" Sans looks at himself, his grin twitching down at the corners before he recovers. "Oh. Sap, actually. I fell in some vines. Heh. You could say I--"

Sensing an impending pun, Papyrus says flatly, "Stop."

"-- faceplanted."

"Ugh." Papyrus CHECKs him, a well-worn reflex after years of Sans management. Sans lets him, or at least tolerates it quietly. His numbers are fine, but Papyrus asks anyway. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"'M fine, bro.” Sans heavily drops onto the couch. His dark circles have developed dark circles. He didn’t look so terrible this morning; Papyrus would have noticed. “You should see the other guy."

"Ugh," Papyrus repeats, more fondly, and hooks his finger in one of the rips. "I suppose you'll expect me to fix this."

"It's fine. It doesn't matter."

"Nonsense! I won't have people thinking my brother makes unfortunate fashion choices." Papyrus stands, headed for the kitchen. "Take that off before you get everything sticky."

Sans grunts and moves stiffly, wincing a little as he takes the hoodie off. The shirt doesn't seem ripped, at least. None of the thorns got him. Where Sans can't see him, Papyrus sighs in relief.

They haven’t lived on the streets in something like six years. Papyrus wonders when he’ll get to stop getting nervous every time Sans is unexpectedly late, like he’ll never see Sans again. They’re safe now. Bad things don’t happen here. Maybe one day that’ll sink in.

He fetches his untouched, cooling mug from the kitchen and comes back to press it into Sans's hands. "There. Your quest for botanical vengeance has ended."

Sans gives him a look like Papyrus said something funny, then peers into the mug. "What d'you--"

Once, when Mettaton did a beach episode, he got sand in his gears and ground to a painful, shuddery stop. Sans stops like that (admittedly without the loud metallic shrieking) when he sees what Papyrus gave him, his eyelights snuffing out.

What a strange reaction to have to golden flower tea.

"I know. You prefer coffee like a heathen," Papyrus says, and reaches for the cup to take it back. "Well! No accounting for taste!"

Sans pulls the cup sharply to his chest, almost spilling it. His eyelights are back on, at least. With that fake casualness that never fools Papyrus at all, Sans says, "Where'd this come from?"

"Golden flowers," Papyrus says. "It's on the box."

"Heh. No, I mean like who gave it to you." Sans raises the cup to his mouth and takes a sip. "Or has this interest in tea been brewing a while?"

"Undyne gave me some after today's lesson!" It still gives Papyrus a warm feeling. Undyne is teaching him herself. Undyne lets him in her house. They're friends. He has a friend. "I like it very much, so she gave me a box to take home. She says she has plenty."

Which is something of an understatement; one of her cabinets had been stuffed so full of tea that opening it sent boxes tumbling out. She'd shoved the tea into Papyrus's arms and stared him down until he'd accepted it. Undyne is very serious about hospitality.

Because Sans isn't saying anything, Papyrus keeps talking. "Apparently she told the king she liked it once and he remembered. He really is a big fuzzy pushover-- why are you making that face?"

Sans looks like he's going to laugh or throw up. Hopefully not both, or that could be messy. To Papyrus's great relief, Sans picks laughing. Sans thinks strange things are funny. His own jokes, for example. It makes it hard to tell what Sans is laughing at.

"Yeah. 'M fine." Sans takes a deep breath. "Our dad liked tea."

He says it fast, the words all running together, so it takes Papyrus a moment to understand. When he does, he sits down hard on the edge of the couch. "Our what?"

There's a long moment of quiet. Sans always picks the worst times to finally stop talking. Just when Papyrus is about to shake him until his teeth rattle, Sans mutters something that sounds distinctly like _fuck it_. Then, only a little louder: "Our dad. Y'know. Father, pops, old man, daddio? Ringing any bells?"

"I know what a father is!"

"Good. I was about to get worried about sex ed in schools these days." Sans taps his thumb against the mug with an annoying click-click-click. "Maybe I should get you a book or something."

"I don't need a book, Sans!" Papyrus reaches out and covers Sans's hand with his, making the incessant tick of his thumb stop. "I know we have one, but I didn't know we _have_ one!"

"Had. He died." The way Sans says it kills any suspicion Papyrus might've had that Sans is making a particularly tasteless joke. He's still smiling, but Papyrus has seen him smile while he bleeds.

It's a strange thing, finding a father and losing him in less than two minutes. Papyrus lets Sans go. "Oh. You never said."

"I know," Sans tells the bottom of the mug. "Sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me?"  Papyrus asks that question so often, out loud and in his head. Did he do something? Did he _not_ do something? Sans can't lie to him for no reason. "I know you have a general not telling anyone anything policy, but I'm not anybody. You’re supposed to talk to me."

Sans rubs his brow. "I didn't think it mattered. You didn't remember."

Papyrus flings his hands up. It doesn't properly convey his frustration, but no gesture could, except maybe one of the rude ones Undyne makes all the time. "That seems like an excellent reason to tell me! How else am I supposed to know?"

"Sorry," Sans says again. "I don't have an excuse. It was just... easier not to."

There's more to it than that. Papyrus isn't Sans, with his strange ability to make friends and whatnot, but he can hear unsaid reasons in Sans's voice.

"You're making it very difficult to argue with you." 

“Sorr--”

Papyrus points a stern finger at Sans. "Don't say you're sorry again. Listen to me. Are you listening?"

"All ears."

"I'm ignoring that." Papyrus lowers his hand. The finger point of sternness is best limited to small doses. "I'm sorry I don't remember him."

Sans's head jerks up, his eyelights shrunken with surprised alarm. "It's not your fault--"

"Will you tell me about him?"

Sans sighs, like he’s tired or relieved or both, and Papyrus knows he's won. "What d'you wanna know?"

"Oh! Er. I expected you to be obstinate some more." Papyrus thinks. "Did he have nice hair?"

Sans laughs. Some of the tension drops off his shoulders. Papyrus wonders what Sans thought he was going to ask. "The nicest. And a beard."

"Wowie," Papyrus says. "Like Santa?"

"Heh. A lot like Santa, actually. Blonder. Definitely taller." Sans grins for real. "He banged his head on a lot of doorways. Then he'd say 'darn it' or 'golly'. Real foul mouth on that guy."

"Clearly he didn't pass that along to you.”

"Eh. I was already a lost cause when he took us in."

"Don't talk like that!" Papyrus says, offended. "Nobody's a lost cause! Especially you! You’re the brother of the great Papyrus, after all."

Sans's grin ticks up at one corner. "I was a smartass kid, I mean. I wasn’t real nice to him. Kind of a jerk, actually.”

Papyrus pats his arm. “I’m sure the puns weren’t that bad.”

“Heh.” Sans turns the cup in his hands. “I, uh. Didn’t tell him. Anything.”

“You never tell anyone anything.”

“I didn’t tell him I loved him,” Sans elaborates. There’s no real intonation in the way he says it, like it doesn’t matter to him at all, which means of course it does.

“Oh.” Papyrus considers this. “Did you love him?” When Sans nods, Papyrus asks, “Was he particularly stupid?”

Startled into looking at Papyrus, Sans says warily, “No?”

“Then he knew.” Fondly, Papyrus says, “You’re a lying sneak with emotional issues but you’re not particularly subtle, brother.”

“Yeah, well.” Sans drops his attention to the cup, or the floor, or anywhere that isn’t Papyrus. “I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right! The Great Papyrus is 110% right! Especially about percentages!”

“The guy tried real hard. You probably got that from him. The not giving up thing.” Sans shakes his head at some memory. “Man, he loved you."

Papyrus turns that over in his mind like a puzzle piece, trying to make it fit. It's... nice, knowing another person loves him. Even if Papyrus must've been too young to be truly great yet. And Papyrus forgot him.

He has dreams sometimes. There’s a big shadow leaning over him that’s not scary or strange but protective, blocking out the bad loud dreams. The shadow smells green, and their face scratches a little when it bends down to kiss his forehead. They say things that are gone in the morning. Papyrus figured it was because the stories had people like that and maybe his mind made one up for him.

He hadn’t had one of those dreams in a long time.

"What was his name?" Papyrus asks.

"Uh, Asgore."

"How strange. He was named after the king?"

“No, Papyrus. It was King Fluffybuns. He decided he wanted two street urchins because he didn’t have enough to do.”

“Well, you don’t have to be sarcastic about it,” Papyrus says, irked.

"He liked tea," Sans says. "Gardening. Jeez, he was stinking terrible at chess, but he thought he oughta play it because it was classy or whatever."

"It's good strategy," Papyrus says automatically, although chess makes his head hurt. He never understood how it was supposed to teach anything about war when knights don't have to move in an L and people shouldn't be sacrificed, even for a good move. He likes Monopoly better.

"I wouldn't know. You're the strategy guy." There's a smile in Sans's voice, a fondness Papyrus is used to only being directed at him. "He was surprisingly good at poker, for all that he couldn't lie worth a damn. Taught me a few tricks."

"Is _that_ why the dogs won't play with you anymore?" Papyrus asks. Sans shrugs but looks a little smug. Papyrus hesitates, then says, "When did he die?"

The life drops away from Sans's face. Shutters down, doors locked, Papyrus on the outside. Papyrus hates that look. "I dunno. Feels like it was yesterday. One minute everything was fine and then--" Sans snaps his fingers and gives a nothing-is-actually-funny laugh. "Gone. Like throwing a switch. Pushing a button. Turning on a machine, you could say."

"Your metaphor got a little confusing at the end but I don't want to stifle your creativity." Papyrus looks at Sans, who is determinedly not looking back. "What happened?"

Silence. "I don't-- I'll tell you whatever, buddy, just don't ask me about that. Okay?” Sans’s voice threatens to shake. “Please?"

"Yes," Papyrus says quickly, alarmed by that ‘please’. "We don't have to. I know you’re rusty at this honesty business. I don’t want you to pull a muscle you don’t have.”

"Thanks." Sans drags a hand over his face. "Okay. Yeah. Uh, what else?"

A lot else. Years of else. Obviously Sans can't tell him everything in one night, even if there are things Sans doesn't want to talk about. Papyrus isn't going to let Sans pretend this didn't happen, even if it requires dangling Sans by his ankles until he gives up. In this single instance, it works out in Papyrus's favor that Sans gives up easily.

Wistful, Papyrus says, "He sounds nice."

"He was a disaster. A bad decision machine. Hurt some people pretty bad. He felt guilty, but that didn't undo anything." Sans glances at Papyrus. "I gave him a lot of crap for taking us in to feel better about himself.”

"I'm sure it was more than that," Papyrus says, not sure at all. "Everybody can be a better person."

"Can't change the past." After a moment, apparently remembering that there's a time machine in his shed, Sans corrects himself. "Most people can't, anyway. He couldn't. Dude could barely remember where he left his cell phone most days."

They both look at the deceased cell phone sitting on the couch by Sans. Papyrus raises a brow. Sans shrugs, unrepentant. 

"He still took us in. Maybe it doesn't matter why he did it. It was a good thing to do. He loved us." Papyrus wavers in his resolve. "You said he did."

"He did," Sans agrees simply. "I wish he was here. He'd have been real proud of you."

Papyrus doesn't sound like great Papyrus at all when he asks, "He would?"

"Dude." Sans drops the empty cup right on the floor like an animal so he can put his hands on Papyrus's shoulders. He needs a shower; he smells like sweat and crushed leaves. Very seriously, he says, "C'mon. Of course he would. Look at you. You're in the Royal Guard like you always wanted, right? You're training with the Hammer of-- sorry, Spear of Justice. You're doing great."

It would probably be more convincing if Sans wasn't made up of 75% lies, but Papyrus wants to believe it. So he decides he does, which is just as good as really believing. "And you're actually telling the truth. I'm sure he'd be proud of you, too."

"Heh." Sans isn't so good at deciding to believe things. "Maybe. He'd have some good reasons to be pissed."

Papyrus frowns. He's allowed to scold Sans about being lazy, telling too many puns, and generally being a literal and figurative mess. He has to live with Sans, it's his prerogative. He's not sure how to feel about anybody else doing it. "I don't think so. I mean, yes, I wish you'd told me, but-- would he be angry I forgot?"

"Nah. He'd apologize for dying."

"Well, it's not like he did it on purpose!" Papyrus says. "Nobody dies on purpose."

Sans rubs his face like he does when he's got a headache, grimaces at the sweat that comes away on his hand, and wipes it on his own shirt. When Papyrus understandably recoils, Sans grins and gestures like he's going to rub his gross brother residue on Papyrus, too.

"The neighbors don't like it when I dive out the window and run screaming into the night," Papyrus says. "It's embarrassing for everyone involved and then I'll be forced to put you in a snowbank."

"That's fair." Sans goes to tuck his hand back into the hoodie he's not wearing, realizes, and rubs the back of his neck instead. "Hey, uh. Can we be done? I'm passing out here."

And he clearly is. Once Sans starts doing the slow blinking thing, there's no point in trying to get sense out of him anymore. Papyrus has no end of frustrating anecdotes about Sans falling asleep mid-puzzle or facedown in a plate of spaghetti.

“You haven’t told me hardly anything,” Papyrus says, but there’s no backbone in it. "I don't know why you're tired. It's not like you did things."

"I'm bushed because I talked with some buds," Sans says. "They were in a thorny situation. It's cool, though. It wasn't in vine."

"Vine?"

"Vain."

"Ah. Somehow your puns get worse when you're semi-conscious." Papyrus studies him. "What kind of plant did you fall on, anyway?"

"Couldn't tell. It was pretty one of a kind." Sans lets himself tip forward so he's leaning his full weight on Papyrus, as if Papyrus is still a babybones Sans can crush with his weight. His forehead presses into Papyrus’s sternum a little painfully. Papyrus puts an arm around him, gross sweatiness and all. Muffled, Sans says, "We can keep talking about him tomorrow, if you want."

"The plant?"

"Dad." Sans says it quietly, as if he's afraid someone can hear or the name might bring the roof down on them. "I know you got more questions, and, uh. It's nice to talk about him. I mean, it sucks, but it helps."

Papyrus smiles at the top of his head. "You're welcome. There. Now is telling me the truth so terrible?"

"Yeah, well." Sans levers himself up off Papyrus and the couch, wobbling on his feet. Papyrus automatically puts a hand out to steady him. Sans _is_ tired tonight. Another thing to worry about. "Might as well, right? It's not like it's gonna stick."

"What?" Papyrus is asking that a lot tonight, it seems. Sans is already up and headed for the stairs; craning his neck to follow him, Papyrus says, a little hurt, "I’m not going to forget again.”

Sans shrugs.

Papyrus continues, “Or let you pretend this didn’t happen. I’m more persistent than you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Sans says.

When he doesn’t elaborate, Papyrus says, “There’s something else going on you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

After a minute, Sans nods.

“Is that why you’re all--” Papyrus gestures at the soiled hoodie. Another nod, another total lack of explanation. Papyrus straightens as something occurs to him. “Did someone hurt you?”

“I told you,” Sans says. “I got attacked by a plant.”

It’s Papyrus’s turn to lean back into the couch. Sans drives him to terrible posture decisions. Plaintively, he asks, “I thought we had changed to a telling your brother the truth policy."

"I am telling you the truth." The words are half lost in Sans's yawn. "I’ll explain more tomorrow. Might as well put all the cards on the table this time. Nothing to lose, right?”

“In telling your very cool and adult Papyrus the truth? No. It’ll be fine,” Papyrus says. “It’s not good to carry around so many secrets, Sans. Maybe that’s why you’re tired all the time? They must be heavy.”

Sans’s grin wobbles. He drags a hand over his face, covering it up because he can’t let even Papyrus see him be upset. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right. We covered this.” Papyrus balls the hoodie up in his hands. There’s sap getting on his gloves and he doesn’t even mind. “Do you promise to tell me tomorrow?”

Predictably, Sans says, “C’mon, dude. You know I hate--”

“Please?” Papyrus says. It’s cheating, but. Well. This seems to require every advantage Papyrus can use. 

Sans stops covering his face. He has it under control again. “All right. I promise I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Okay? All this honesty bullshit has worn me out.”

“I imagine it has.” Papyrus wraps his arms around the hoodie, a long distance hug. If he doesn't accept temporary defeat, Sans is clearly going to fall asleep standing up again. “Let no one say I’m not a merciful negotiator. Lazybones. Do you want freezer waffles for breakfast?"

"You're too good to me, Pap."

"I know. It's my generous nature." More gently, he adds, “I do love you, brother. Lies, laziness and all.”

“Getting all sappy on me,” Sans teases. Papyrus can’t quite suppress his traitorous smile, although the pun is terrible. Admittedly, he doesn’t try very hard. “I love you too, buddy.”

There are a few, less important words after that. A _good night_ or two. Then Sans’s bedroom door closes, and there’s quiet. 

The house always creaks as it settles. Something about the wood and the cold outside, the same comfortable old house noises. But maybe not. Maybe.

It's better not to be rude. Papyrus picks up the mug to put in the sink and says to the maybe ghost, "Don't be worried, mystery dad. I'm still here keep an eye on him. I'm very good at my job."

***

Papyrus has to drag Sans out of bed, which means that it's a normal Tuesday. When Papyrus sets him down at the table, Sans oozes over so he can sprawl on the table top.

"You're getting the table dirty," Papyrus tells him. "Don't think I'm wiping that up."

Sans turns so he can look at Papyrus. "It's too late for me, bro. Me and the table have bonded at the molecular level. Save yourself."

"The Great Papyrus leaves no man behind!" Papyrus goes to the kitchen and retrieves a mug. "Here. I know what will make you feel better."

"Sleep?" Sans asks without any particular hope. "Ketchup? Ketchup-flavored sleep?"

"Even better!" Papyrus puts down the mug, thinks, and physically wraps Sans's limp hand around it. "I got it from Undyne. It's her favorite and her taste is flawless, which is why she chose me to be her friend."

"Can't argue with that." With dramatic effort, Sans manages to sit up like a grown monster and look in the cup. His face freezes over for a moment, and then he blinks and is fine as if nothing happened. "Golden flower tea, huh."

"You don't like it," Papyrus says. His head aches, suddenly, and there is a strange, hollow feeling in his chest. Then that's gone, too, fast as Sans's overreaction. He plasters a smile over it. He doesn't have time to be sick today. He has training with Undyne later. Of course he's fine. "Well! I suppose there's no accounting for taste!"

"What? Nah, it's great." Sans takes a deep drink as if to demonstrate. "Heh. I just thought of something funny."


	2. Chapter 2

_Today is a good day,_ Asgore writes, as he writes every day, and puts down the pen. His journal lays open before him. Tomorrow's page is blank and accusatory.

He could write tomorrow's entry and the next and the next after that. _Today is a good day_. Somewhere it must be true. Some young couple must be peering at each other across the kitchen table, stunned by their good fortune. Some child must be walking outside to find the birds singing and the flowers blooming. It's a reminder and a hope at once.

It does not feel like a good day today. Not in his home, which feels too quiet, like the world is holding its breath until a predator passes by. A strange thought, unfounded. Even on the worst day of his life, he didn't feel any sense of foreboding until Asriel's scream: _"Daddy, there's something wrong with Chara!"_

Foresight is not Asgore's gift. Yet there's been no guards passing by the doors to his chamber in a clatter of armor and youthful boasting, no distant laughter from the kitchen. New Home feels empty. Haunted.

There's nothing wrong, but there's also no harm in checking to soothe his bad old nerves. Asgore closes the book, shrugs on his robe and goes to investigate.

There is no one in the halls. No advisors bustling over with papers and 'just one thing, King Asgore.' No citizens with grievances to be heard or guards doing their rounds, hoping that Undyne will stop by and see them hard at work. (Or at least not catch them at slacking.) There is no one in the kitchen or, when he peeks out the window, in the streets of the capital. With each empty room, the dread in Asgore's belly draws tighter.

The judgment hall is not empty.

"Heya." Sans is slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets. His dull blue hoodie and dirty pink slippers should clash with the formal décor, but he owns the space like it's his living room. He only glances at Asgore, then goes back to watching the door leading outside, dismissing him.

"Howdy," Asgore says automatically. "I didn't call you."

"Nope." Sans pushes himself off the wall. "We’ve got a problem. Another human fell. Striped shirt."

"Oh." Well, that explains why the guards are missing. Another child for Asgore to kill. The last one. Asgore feels his shoulders drop as if from a sudden weight on his back. "I see."

"You don't see. They're killing everybody they come across. About fifty so far."

There's no emotion in his voice, so it takes a moment for the meaning of the words to hit. Asgore recoils, staggering back a step, then steadies himself on the wall. Disbelieving, he echoes, " _Fifty_? A child did this? Why?"

“Because they could. Because we’re here. Because they want to see what happens. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Asgore says. “Maybe they’re just afraid. No one else has to get hurt. If someone talks to them--”

“You think nobody tried? It’s your kingdom. You know what we’re like. Puzzles and jokes and games of fetch. We’re saps. They killed the fucking dogs, Asgore. They killed--” Sans stops, then starts again more calmly. “Everybody. So they're about to get speared in the face. Undyne is, uh. Pretty pissed."

Yes, Asgore imagines she is. "They haven't left Waterfall," he says, unsure if he's relieved for his kingdom or terrified for her. "Did she send you?"

"She tried to call you. Alphys too. You lose your phone again, buddy?" There's a manic glitter to Sans's eyelights that Asgore doesn't like. "You gotta work on that."

Asgore takes in the slump of Sans's shoulders and the wobbly edges of his grin. Battlefield shock, perhaps. Sans has judged killers before, but only monsters who killed one or two people. Three people, once. Asgore is the most prolific killer Sans has seen. He wasn't alive for the war; he isn't used to death on this scale. "Are you hurt? I can make you some sea tea."

Sans laughs and takes one hand out of his pocket to cover his eyes. "You never change, big guy. You and Papyrus."

A flash of red catches Asgore's eye. It peeks out from Sans's pocket like a hidden wound. Fabric. A scarf.

"Sans," Asgore says, slow horror dawning. "Where's your brother?"

Sans tucks the scarf back where it's safe and turns his face away. "You oughta go back to your throne room. Undyne's probably already killed the human."

Undyne, the daughter of his heart. If any of them has a chance of stopping a human with killing intent, it's her. If she'd been born a thousand years earlier, they might not have lost the war. She'll fight all the harder to protect her people, to avenge her friends, but... 

But Asgore remembers the war. He'd thought his mother too fierce to die, too.

Slowly, Asgore shakes his head. She won't forgive him for interfering, but he's scattered the dust of too many people in his family. "I'm sorry, but--"

Sans is suddenly in his path, blocking his way. He's no true obstacle, significantly smaller than Asgore; it's the look in his eyes that stops Asgore cold.

"Listen," Sans says-- no. The judge says. "You're thinking like a father. Think like a king. If this goes bad, you need to be here by the souls. You can absorb them and kill the human."

"If there’s no convincing them,” Asgore says, “if there can be no peace, I can stop them before they can get any farther.”

"You could've killed any of the humans in one shot. You're gonna look at their face and see Chara and you're gonna flinch.” Sans’s grin goes bitter. "You always do. Doesn't matter whose dust they're wearing."

"Then you're telling me to stay out of the way," Asgore says. "To retire to my garden while the underground collapses around me. No."

Sans ignores his protest. He barely seems to notice it. "I'm telling you you're the nuclear option. Trust your guards. We need you alive a little longer. Maybe hang around long enough to put the place back together when this blows over."

"If Undyne falls, do you truly expect this to just stop?" Asgore demands.

"Maybe. Maybe the human will get sick of it and give up. Maybe they'll decide to play nice. Maybe Undyne will take them with her. Maybe Alphys will hide all the monsters so the human can't jack their LV through the ceiling. Maybe, maybe, maybe."

"And yet here you stand between me and the door," Asgore says. "Would you move if I asked?"

"We all got our jobs," Sans says. "You could make mine a little easier."

Asgore looks at Sans from bleak grin to dusty slippers. One HP. Using force to get Sans out of the way could easily kill him, and the only person who could talk Sans out of anything is only dust on a scarf.

If Asgore was the kind of king who would kill Sans to move forward, then he'd be the kind of king who could kill a child (even a murderous one) without remorse. Without hesitation. Asgore isn't that king. His life would be so much easier if he was.

"It isn't your job to protect me," Asgore begins, and is cut off by Sans's laugh.

"Funny joke," Sans says. "I mean, heh, look at my track record."

Asgore winces. At this point, he could say a dozen things: Papyrus would want Sans to be safe. It isn't Sans's fault. Papyrus is beyond pain now, beyond fear. There is no comfort in grief. "I'm sorry about Papyrus."

Sans looks away, but not before Asgore sees his expression crumple like he's been stabbed. He doesn't stop trying to grin. It looks painful. "Yeah. Okay.”

"He was a wonderful person. I didn't know him as well as I should. Perhaps when this is over we can have a cup of tea and talk about him."

Very quiet, Sans says, "Sure. That'd be nice." Then he clears his throat and meets Asgore's gaze again, dry-eyed. "If the kid comes here, I'm just here to judge. Got a bone to pick with 'em."

"You won't fight them.” It's a statement, an order, but they both know a judge doesn't answer to a king. That isn’t how it works. Sometimes, a king needs to be judged like anyone else.

"Do I look like I could fight anybody?" Sans points out, reasonably. "I'll just do my thing and then they're all yours. But they got a long way to go before then. They're not gonna get past Waterfall."

Sudden and inexplicable, Asgore thinks, _Undyne is already dead. He’s lying._

Sans is watching Asgore's face. If he sees Asgore's moment of baseless paranoia, he doesn't change expression. Not for the first time Asgore wishes Sans was a little less inscrutable; it seems unfair that Sans reads everything and gives nothing back.

"If it will be a while," Asgore says, "you can spare a few minutes. Come sit with me. You shouldn't be alone right now."

"That's sweet, buddy, but I'm fine out here."

"You're not fine," Asgore says quietly.

"It doesn't matter." Despite his unwavering grin, there's desperation in Sans's voice. "It'll be over soon one way or the other. I can't be a person right now. You get it?"

Yes. Asgore gets it. Perhaps if he'd been able to shut himself down after Asriel and Chara died, to choke back his anger and grief until reason returned, they wouldn't be in this situation. Asgore puts one hand on Sans's shoulder. Sans is cold beneath his hoodie like he carries Snowdin's winter with him. Sans's breath hitches once and then steadies.

"If you change your mind, you know where I'll be." Asgore tries to smile. "The flowers need to be watered, I suppose."

"Yeah," Sans says hoarsely. Then he shrugs Asgore's hand off, although the fondness of his smile takes away some of the sting. "Catch you on the flipside, huh?"

Asgore lets his hand drop. "Be careful, Sans. I'll see you when this is over."

Then Asgore leaves Sans to his vigil over the silent hall, motes of dust hovering in the sunlight pouring through golden stained glass windows. When Asgore takes a last glance over his shoulder, Sans is still watching him go. Sans smiles and waves like Asgore is a child headed to school.

The glint in his eyes puts a chill up Asgore's back. Sans looks at Asgore as if they are both already dust.


	3. Chapter 3

Asgore's voice rumbles through the wall like thunder through the barrier. "Human. It was nice to meet you. Goodbye."

Sans leans against the doorway, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. Is Toriel running through the judgment hall now? Is she even in the capital? No, there's still time, there's got to still be--

Fire magic bursts out of the doorway. The fight's started. It's too late.

There's nobody to hear him when he says, "Sorry, old man."

It doesn't make sense. The human didn't kill anyone this time. They were headed for the happy ending. His notes said--

Reality wobbles, a spinning gold coin getting ready to land on one side or the other. It's a subtle thing, easy to mistake for something else, but he's felt it 17 times in the last 48 hours. The human had some trouble beating Undyne. Apparently they're having trouble with Asgore too.

Sans wonders how they died. The fire magic? Nasty way to go. Better if it was the trident. Quicker.

Not that it matters. It's over. Asgore was dead the second he started the fight. Sans can go. He _should_ go. He did his part, the dancing monkey, kept the human entertained. There's nothing he can do now. There's no point. He doesn't have to listen to Asgore die.

He doesn't move. The fight is mostly silent, only the crackle of fire and the occasional cry of pain from the human. Sans can almost pretend it isn't happening.

It doesn't take long, although for the human it probably feels different. Five more deaths. No telling how long they've been throwing themself against the brick wall of Asgore's bad decisions. They're determined and they've got patience to burn.

Ha.

Asgore could've killed the human with his eyes closed. Sans knows his stats. But Asgore doesn't strike them down in one shot, because he never does. Asgore drops himself to his knees and puts the knife to his own throat. In the end, the human doesn't have much to do with it.

Asgore is talking. He offers the human his soul. The human declines, apparently, because Asgore continues his spiel. There's a dawning, faltering hope in his voice as he says his last words: "We could be a family."

Sans closes his eyes.

There is a rending screech, like vines tearing through metal armor. The human sobs once, a wretched animal noise that would warm Sans's heart if he could still feel anything. If the human keeps crying, it's buried under the flower's snide laugh.

_”Asriel was so kind. He had a good heart, a sensitive nature. He tried so very hard to be everyone’s friend. I wish you had met him.” Asgore’s gentle smile. “You would have loved him.”_

There's only one thing worth reading in the stupid useless fucking notes Sans left himself. The raw truth in four words: _you can't save them._

It’s only the end of the world. Sans leaves them to it. He goes home.

Home is like a different world, warm and alive. The TV's on. Something's burning on the stove. Papyrus is there, bustling between the kitchen and the living room. Sans raised a bustler. Fuck knows how.

Asgore is probably how.

Papyrus is a thousand miles away, wringing his hands, and it takes him nearly tripping over Sans to catch his attention. Papyrus startles with a little yelp, the big bad guard, but recovers and laughs triumphantly. "Ha! I knew you were there the whole time! It was a clever ruse to see if you knew I knew!"

"Got me again, bro," Sans says. His voice is rusty. He clears his throat and attempts a smile. Judging from Papyrus's expression, it's not super effective.

The battle body doesn't even have pockets but Papyrus produces a handkerchief, because he is an adult person with his shit together. It's a habit Papyrus picked up from Asgore, one of a million little things Papyrus doesn't remember.

 _”Your grandmother taught me that a gentleman always carries a handkerchief,”_ Asgore would say, like he didn't carry extras for anybody who needed it.

 _”Good thing you don't know any gentlemen,”_ Sans would shoot back, and Asgore would laugh his big booming laugh like he hadn't heard that joke before.

Sans decides to stop thinking about that.

Now Papyrus passes the handkerchief to Sans and says fondly, "Wipe your face, you big softie."

"Huh?" Sans says intelligently. When he touches his face, it's wet. He hadn't noticed. "Oh. Yeah. Got some dust in my eye."

"I'm worried about the human too." Papyrus herds Sans towards the couch and they sit down. There’s plenty of room for them to sit in opposite corners, but they stay close enough to bump knees. "King Fluffybuns is a pushover, of course. I bet they're just having tea. Maybe the human will put in a recommendation for me to join the guard!"

"You never know." Sans means _no_ and knows that Papyrus will hear what he wants. That's how Papyrus rolls. He shouldn't manipulate Papyrus, but. Well. It's not like either of them are gonna remember tomorrow. Better to keep Papyrus happy.

"I'm sure they're fine," Papyrus says, in a tone that screams that he isn't sure at all. "They befriended the Great Papyrus, after all! And they bested Undyne-- well, Hotland kind of bested her, because that’s the only way to best the best. Convincing Asgore to help them through the barrier is a piece of cake! Strange furry cake with tea leaves in it."

The human takes that moment to die and reset. Flawless comedic timing on that kid--

No. Not a kid, not unless it’s a button he’s pressing to make them think he’s really rooting for them. He needs to keep it clear in his head. He can’t forget what they are or what they can do. Have done. Will do.

Right. The human was just the anomaly in his old notes. Alphys is the biologist, but Sans knows capture bonding when he sees it. Learned helplessness, too. Shock a dog in a cage enough times and eventually it stops trying to escape; it just lays down on the floor to wait for the next one.

On the screen, Mettaton is clutching his microphone with arms that Alphys duct-taped back on. Hard to tell from just a monitor, but Sans thinks Mettaton looks nervous. The human grew on them fast, a friend they forgot they already met. Easy as pie when the human knows all their dirty little secrets.

Then again, Sans has no room to talk.

Sans pats Papyrus's shoulder, straightening his scarf a little. It's comforting to know that it's still around Papyrus's neck where it belongs. Papyrus makes a disgruntled noise and fussily readjusts it to his liking. Then he bumps his shoulder against Sans's, trying to reassure him for the wrong reason.

 _I can't do this anymore,_ Sans thinks, one clear thought like a knife in the dark. He’s so tired. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here; he stopped keeping track of the number of resets. Sometimes he stands over his notes with a match, thinking, wondering if he’s ever burned them all and started over. It'd be easier not to know what little he knows. His chest hurts all the time now.

The second passes and another follows. He leans into Papyrus's side until Papyrus gets the hint and puts an arm around him. That helps. Papyrus is the only one who means anything anymore.

"Don't worry about the human too much," Sans says, his eyes locked on the screen. "They're determined. They'll be fine."

Papyrus's arm tightens a little. "Of course they will! They won't give up!"

"They're never going to stop," Sans says, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> "If the strain proves too much  
> Give up right away  
> If the light hurts your eyes  
> Stay in your room all day
> 
> When the room fills with smoke  
> Lie down on the floor  
> In the declining years  
> Of the long war."  
> \- In the Craters on the Moon, the Mountain Goats


End file.
